


a clear line of sight

by sheffiesharpe



Series: Peace Arc AU [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Peace Arc AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheffiesharpe/pseuds/sheffiesharpe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows "peace is a river" in the Peace Arc AU. Finally something pleasant for Basch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a clear line of sight

When Vossler returns from the desert, six days after he left Rabanastre, and he finally looks Basch square in the eye, Basch feels like he can breathe again. When Vossler asks if he can come to speak with him when their day is done, when he sits in the chair opposite Basch and leans against the wooden back with a satisfied wince, Basch puts his arms around Vossler and hugs him until neither of them can breathe and Vossler is trying to push him away from the bruises that must lie under his shirt.

“Let go. For the love of the gods, let go,” Vossler says, and he’s almost laughing. Basch doesn’t, not right away. He’s still half-tempted to shake him, to hit him, to do _something_ to let him know what he’s put them through, but the expression on Vossler’s face says he finally understands.

For the first time in all of the years that they have been friends, Vossler apologizes to him. And he tells Basch the whole of the last six days.

The queen has said not a word to him about it, not since she signed the letter he sent to Vossler. He’d seen her on the very day Vossler tells him about, in the evening, and he’d seen her yesterday at dinner with the court. Vossler says he’s meeting with her tomorrow, and Basch wonders if he should do the same, sometime soon.

When Vossler gets up to leave his rooms, Basch almost asks him to stay. His heart pounds like he’s run six leagues, and though things are supposed to be fine now, actually _right_ , it doesn’t feel like it, not yet. He wants to hear from his brother, but Gabranth, like Vossler, likely has a lot of work to catch up on. And, as Vossler said, he has a need to even get ahead of his schedule, as much as he can, so there can be nights free. So Basch lets Vossler go, and he sits behind his desk, his forehead resting on the edge of it. He’s not going to write to his twin again. He’s sent three letters in two days and it’s not his right to monopolize the messengers that way. But Basch wants to hear from his brother’s own mouth that things are better because there’s a piece of parchment in his own desk drawer, signed with the name of Judge Magister Gabranth, with Basch as its witness: a final testament. It’s sealed, but Basch knows what it says. He’d sat beside his brother while he wrote it, nine days ago, in his brother’s rooms in Archades. He watched the blood drop onto the parchment corner, watched it spread under the stamp of Gabranth’s thumb. He watched his brother write, in the Old Landisser script, the words their father said before his last battle, the words his father had said before his: _The hour has come._ Then they’d made their plan, and Basch had kissed his brother’s sunken cheeks, and he had hoped, against all odds, that he was right about Vossler.

It’s still next to impossible to understand that hope hasn’t failed him. He stares instead at the wooden whorls of the floorboards and listens to the city’s evening sounds coming in through the open window. He thinks he might go to the infantry barracks, to sit with Vossler and help him with the backlog of paperwork that has been waiting for him when there’s a soft knock at the door. He didn’t hear any footsteps.

The door eases open before he even gets up, and Fran slips into the room.

“I thought so,” she says. “Balthier has gone looking for you in the stables.”

Basch’s heart catches in his throat. Why are they looking for him?

Fran must see the look of panic on his face; she holds out her hands, palms up. “No worries,” she says. “We only thought you might like company.” She pulls him up from his chair, leads him to his couch, and she sits, easily, comfortably. Basch can manage sitting, anyway. “When Balthier realizes I was right, he has a letter for you,” she says. A ghost of a smile plays at her lips, and it’s enough to coax a real one from him.

“He never learns, does he?” He hadn’t been expecting to see Balthier, not for a while, and despite what he told Vossler, they haven’t made any plans for anything. Mostly, Basch is trying his best not to change the way Balthier goes about his life. Mostly, he is surprised that he’s seen Balthier the three times he has, but that has been a blessing.

The door opens again. “I’ve learned I can’t let anyone alone without them turning into a pair of gossiping fishwives.” Balthier closes the door behind him, and Basch sees that the laces on one sleeve have been picked half-open, that there is amber-colored down in Balthier’s hair. Balthier sits on Basch’s far side, so Basch is in the middle of the couch, and he leans in to kiss Basch well. Basch sighs a little against Balthier’s mouth, and Balthier’s arm stays across his shoulders when they break.

“She missed you,” Basch says, and he picks the feather from above Balthier’s ear.

“So it seems.” He pulls a folded piece of parchment from his pouches. “Someone missed you, too.” He turns his head to put a kiss against Basch’s wrist, then hands him the letter. It’s from Gabranth, addressed to him.

Basch reads: his brother is back to active duty as of today, the emperor says both Basch and Vossler are welcome whenever they wish to see him. Now, too, he can feel what is left unsaid, can hear these things in Gabranth’s voice. He knows his twin has a long way still to go, until his body is truly better, and that it may always be that he will list melancholy in his mind, but he is ready to look forward again. The last line: _Thank you._ At the very bottom of the sheet, written small, _The hour has passed. Burn it._ He scrambles for the drawer, and he calls fire to his fingertips. While the sealed page turns to benign ash, the smoke lifts, filters through the open window, and is gone. Basch breathes the charred scent. His brother will be fine. He breathes.

Balthier pulls him back down to the couch, tucks his arm close around Basch’s waist. “We spent yesterday with him,” Balthier says.

Fran’s fingers light in his hair, and she combs it gently with her nails. It startles him a little—she’s never done that before—but it feels good. “His time in the desert treated him well, all things considered.” Her tone says she smiles again. “We even woke him from a nap.”

Balthier presses closer, presses a kiss to Basch’s shoulder. “Not, of course, that he’s any more pleasant when he’s woken up than he ever was.”

“He’s always been like that. _I’m_ like that.” Basch tilts his head toward Fran. Neither of them have ever liked mornings. Strange, then, that they have become soldiers. Basch hasn’t slept in since the first days they were in Archades, staying in the Bunansa estate. He pictures waking up with Balthier, the sun already high and bright. Someday—maybe not too far off, even—that could happen. He laces his fingers with Balthier’s, leans a little more into Fran’s hand.

“Then you hide it better than he does,” Balthier says. The three of them sit quietly for a while, Fran combing idly through his hair, Balthier inching closer. The hand around his waist slides under his shirt, pets at his side. When Balthier starts kissing his neck, Fran sits up.

“I take my leave.” She actually pats Basch on the head. He doesn’t mind at all.

“You don’t—” Basch doesn’t want Balthier to stop—wants very much to reciprocate—but this seems terribly rude to Fran.

“Don’t feel bad,” Balthier says, against the shell of his ear. “She and Ashe have catching up to do.”

“This week, I am certain, has not been easy on her, either,” Fran says. And Basch has to nod.

He sighs. It’s not at all fair to her, and he’s been trying not to think too hard about what his role in all of this might say about the real strength of his loyalties.

Balthier pulls back from him a little. “Don’t you dare,” Balthier says. “If you regret a second of this, _you’re_ going to spend the night with Ashe.”

“He’s right.” Fran takes a few steps toward the door. “Enjoy your good tidings. Be easy.”

“Thank you,” Basch says. For checking on his twin, when he could not. Fran acknowledges him with a tip of her head, and then the door closes behind her.

Balthier stands, too. “If I can stay the whole night, I’d rather go to bed now.” He holds out his hands.

It sinks in: he’s actually going to stay the whole night. It will be the first time that that’s happened, in Dalmasca. On the survey, there’d only been two nights when neither of them had been on watch, and then all they’d done was sleep. The first time, here, they’d coupled, but Balthier had had to leave in the middle of the night, so he and Fran could make Rozarria by first light; the second, he’d actually been waiting for Basch in his office at midday, and he’d just sucked him, sitting at his desk, and then he’d been gone, not even waiting for Basch to repay the favor. The last time, two days before Basch had gone to see his brother, Balthier sneaked into his window, crawled into bed with him for the last three hours of the night, just pressed against Basch’s back. He’d brought Basch word that Gabranth wasn’t well again, was worse than he’d been before, that time.

Now, the news is good, and Balthier won’t leave until morning. But Balthier is looking at him strangely. “That is,” he says, “if you want me to stay the whole night.” His voice is slowing.

Basch shoves himself to his feet, pulls Balthier in close. “Yes,” he says. _Stay always_ is what he wants to say, but it’s too soon for that. He hopes, though, that Balthier knows it, even if he cannot say. And if nothing else, Balthier takes him at his word now, nipping lightly at his jaw before turning for Basch’s bedroom.

Basch locks the door. More than once, some of the more excitable trainees have come bursting through the door with a question, with a wager that needed settling. He is not chancing that happening tonight. While he’s extinguishing the lights in his front room, he hears Balthier in the bedroom, the shuffling of his footsteps, the rustle of blankets. He waits a moment, just listening. Balthier is humming something.

When he gets to the doorway, Balthier is already in bed, his hands behind his head. He watches closely as Basch takes off his shirt, his boots. Something about it makes him blush. “What?”

“Just enjoying looking at you. It’s quite nice, particularly when you aren’t looking as though someone’s about to die.” Balthier props himself up on his elbows, and Basch makes himself meet Balthier’s eyes as he takes down his trousers and comes around to the other side of the bed.

When Basch slides between the sheets, Balthier is already reaching for him, and his mouth is slow against his neck, his hand easy against Basch’s back. Levering himself up on his palms, Basch holds himself steady for Balthier’s deft fingers, for the arching pressure of their hips together. Basch rubs close, leans to mouth at Balthier’s earlobe, to tug at the silver twist.

The pleased noise in Balthier’s throat—Basch loves that sound. But Balthier’s hand comes between them, tips Basch’s chin up. “Let me do the work this time?” His face is serious for a moment. “If you want.”

He’s not entirely sure what Balthier means—he hardly considers this work—but what he wants most right now is to give Balthier what he wants. He nods, and Balthier shifts under him, sits up some. “Tell me if you get claustrophobic.” He kisses Basch again, and Basch nods as well as he can without breaking the kiss. He consents with the yielding of his mouth, and Balthier nudges him down onto his back.

They’d tried this in Phon, briefly, and Basch couldn’t do it. But maybe if Balthier sits up, if he rides him—but Balthier’s not, it seems, in any hurry to decide anything like that yet. It’s strangely relieving—something in the back of Basch’s mind feels like it relaxes, watching Balthier move slowly above him. And Balthier doesn’t stay in the same place over him; he works down, maps Basch’s chest with his lips, with his tongue, and his hands slide over Basch’s thighs, tugs Basch’s leg around his own waist. He’s not blocking his line of sight. The slow surety of Balthier’s touch there of all places—he remembers, suddenly, that Balthier and his brother have been together, remembers how much he knows his twin likes someone paying attention to his legs—it’s stranger still that the thought makes him consider the feeling more. It _is_ good, if unexpected; none of Basch’s previous partners have been so interested in this. He hooks his other leg close around Balthier, and _this_ he likes, the warm pressure of Balthier’s skin on the inside of his thigh, the slide of his calf against Balthier’s back. Balthier exhales, his breath a warm puff on Basch’s stomach.

He can’t help the arch, and Balthier grins up at him. “You’re supposed to be letting me do everything.” He licks lightly at the head of Basch’s cock, then blows a thin stream of air at the licked spot. Basch shivers hard, but it feels wonderful against the heat of the room. Balthier does it again, and Basch tries hard to hold still. When Balthier slides his mouth wholly down over his cock, he has to close his eyes, and then it’s a little easier. Balthier’s hands pet at his thighs, pet inwards until he’s cupping Basch’s balls in one palm, and he strokes the patch of skin behind. Basch can do nothing about how he pushes closer now, and then Balthier’s fingertips drift farther back. He opens his eyes, and Balthier’s watching him. He lifts his mouth from Basch’s cock.

“Would you let me?” He rubs his cheek against him.

It’s been a long time since he’s been fucked. Maybe since the one time Vossler did it, but Vossler had never preferred to top. If it happened after, it wasn’t particularly memorable. But he nods, and he pulls Balthier back up to his mouth, kisses him. He hopes—silently—that Balthier against his back and his face toward the bed isn’t more than he can deal with. He thinks he’ll be fine in that aspect; right now, all he can think is that the closer Balthier is, the better. He does say how long it’s been, though. Balthier doesn’t look surprised. He just kisses him again, says, “I’ll take good care of you,” and he grins his charming grin before leaning toward the bedside table.

Basch is already on his knees when Balthier’s hand stays him, tugs him onto his side, and snugs himself against Basch’s back, so Basch is facing the open window, the width of the room. He reaches back, puts his hand on Balthier’s hip, and Balthier’s fingertips stroke him slick, barely pressing until he pushes back onto Balthier’s hand, onto his finger. It stings at first, feels more than passing strange, but not unpleasant, and Balthier’s mouth is wet heat on the back of Basch’s neck, and his other hand drags soft across Basch’s chest. Basch bends one knee, invites more.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Balthier says, “for a long time.” He licks the back of Basch’s ear. A second finger joins the first, and past the greater stretch, the tightness, Basch feels the flexing shift, the sparking feeling in his balls.

All he can do is take Balthier’s hand, kiss his knuckles. Somehow, it helps him find his voice. “How long?” The question’s unfair—it’s fishing—but he wants to know. He’s glad he asked when he did, because a third finger twines with the others, twists into him slow and slower, and it makes him bite his own lip.

Balthier’s foot touches his, rubs light against his ankle. His ankle? It’s bizarre enough to distract him until the feeling in his arse mutes from odd to sweet, until he can understand the soft petting sensation _inside_ his body, how close Balthier is, how many ways. He nearly misses Balthier’s answer to his question.

“Since Jahara,” he says. That’s been a year. They’ve had this—them—a few short weeks. The thought staggers. Balthier licks at his shoulder, hitches his whole body closer, and Basch wants him closer still. He bears back on Balthier’s fingers, reaches to rub his hip, to offer more. When Balthier’s fingers leave him, he nearly feels cold, inside, but then Balthier’s cock presses against his arse, presses in slow, and they exhale together. Balthier drags his teeth across the nape of his neck as he holds still for a moment, and then his hips rock forward, his hand curling sure and firm around Basch’s cock. “Gods, Basch.” Balthier’s voice is a breathy hum at his shoulder, and despite the preparation, everything still feels impossibly close. It comes to him all in an instant: it’s close, and it’s _good_.

He wants to say something else, but the fullness, the heat of Balthier’s body against his— _in_ his—what can he say? So he arches, uses his hand to show Balthier he wants movement now, he wants the heavy slide of him, and Balthier gives him that. Balthier gives him more kisses across his neck, keeps his face buried in Basch’s hair, strokes him tight and slick and takes him with rocking thrusts that pull sound from both their throats. Basch twines his fingers with Balthier’s, on his own cock, and his other hand is still urging Balthier on, pulling him in, and sooner than he thought he’d be able to, his spend paints their hands, his stomach, the sheets. Balthier pushes deep, stays still through his climax, and it is Basch who rocks back against him, urges him to keep going. It’s a little uncomfortable now, his body tightening, but he wants Balthier to finish, wants to remember what that feels like, too.

When the moment comes—when Balthier’s teeth close on the back of his neck, when Balthier’s hand clutches his and he comes hot and wet inside him, it doesn’t feel like it did when he was with Vossler, but nothing about being with Balthier has felt like that did. They stay together for a while, too, but Basch wants to face him, wants to see him, to kiss him. He pulls away slowly, rolls over, and Balthier licks into his mouth, pulls Basch on top of him.

“All right?” Balthier grins up at him, and Basch has to kiss him again before he nods. Better than all right. Then Balthier stretches under him, and taps him on the side. “Clean up and back in bed?”

He follows Balthier to his own bathing chamber, like they’re Balthier’s rooms and not his own, but something thrills in his stomach when Balthier acts like he knows his way around, pulling towels from the cupboard. Balthier is the one who turns on the water, and they step into the shower. This they haven’t done before, and Basch thinks he’s glad that they’ve already had sex because now he’s free to enjoy the simplicity of the moment: the lather on his hands, the coolness of the water, Balthier beside him. Balthier washes quickly, kisses him lightly. “There should be fresh sheets at your door now. I’ll go put them on the bed.”

Balthier thinks of everything. “I’ll just be a minute,” Basch says. Balthier leaves the room, his towel around his waist, and Basch washes thoroughly. His arse is tender, his legs feel shaky, and now he’s _tired_ , all of the weight of the past weeks settling in on the backs of his eyes, but he doesn’t want to sleep yet.

He dries himself off, and Balthier is already back in bed, the old sheets in a ball in a corner, and there’s a plate of cheese, bread, fruit on the nightstand. Basch tucks in beside him. “What’s all this?” He accepts the slice of apple Balthier holds out to him, takes it with his teeth.

“I know you.” There’s the hint of reproach in it. Basch accepts that, too. He’s hungry, but now he’s much more tired. His head hits the pillow, and Balthier’s hand slides down his chest.

“I don’t deserve you,” Basch says, chewing a bite of cheese. It all feels too easy right now, easy enough that he can forget how hard it was to get here.

Balthier laughs. “I don’t deserve the gift of your short memory.” He stretches luxuriously, grinning. He’s not letting Basch forgo the food, though.

Basch submits to Balthier feeding him for a while—it _is_ nice not to have to do anything for a moment, but his thoughts still stray toward Vossler, toward his brother. Balthier has rested the plate on Basch’s chest, and Balthier’s propped on an elbow beside him. The desert air is cooling, the city is quieting. His lover is in his bed, and they’ll wake up together. When it’s time for them both to start their days, Balthier will walk with him across the barracks’ grounds, will be able to take breakfast with him whether in the commissary or in the city proper, and will be able to wait with him anywhere he is until he and Fran leave. His brother and Vossler will never have this, not _like_ this. He can’t speak for Vossler, but he knows Gabranth feels the loss.

Basch moves the tray and rolls, curls his arm tight around Balthier’s waist, buries his face against Balthier’s chest. Balthier combs the pillow-tangles from his hair. “Be easy,” Balthier says, echoing Fran. “They’ll figure it out.”

The leather-oil and gunpowder scent still clings to his skin, despite that they’ve just washed, and Basch breathes it deep. He nods against Balthier’s body, and the hand in his hair is wonderful. The motion of Balthier’s fingers takes on a purposeful feel, and he pulls back a little, tries to see. Balthier ignores him.

“Are you braiding my hair?” He is. One small braid—not half an inch wide—falls across his face.

“Maybe.” Balthier rubs his shoulder a moment. Then his fingers start their nimble work again. “Just think—even if you let it like this for tomorrow, it still won’t be half as ridiculous as watching Vossler figure out how he’s going to run his sleepovers.”

Basch lets Balthier braid, walks his own fingers up and down Balthier’s ribs. Keeping his hand moving helps him fight off sleep. If he’s only got tonight with Balthier, he wants to be able to talk to him, too. But his hand pauses at Balthier’s words. He hadn’t thought about that, the fact that people are going to notice Vossler’s comings and goings, how he’s going to explain—he pictures Vossler, with his usual Vossler expression, walking through Archades just after dawn, crystalling into Southgate, making his way back to the barracks. Possibly still dealing with the effects of one of his twin’s bastardly wake-ups. Basch actually feels himself grin against Balthier’s stomach.

“You’re awful.”

Balthier lifts one of Basch’s hands, kisses his fingertips. “To the bone.”

It’s funny, and it’s not. It’s not going to be easy for them, not easy at all. Basch pushes himself up onto his palms again, looks out the window. Vossler’s light is still on, and he bets that if he pushed aside the sheer curtain, he could make out the shape of Vossler at his desk.

“Offering to help him tomorrow will piss him off, won’t it?” Balthier’s head is turned toward the window, too, and he’s still smirking a little.

“Probably,” Basch says, “but he might accept, anyway.” He knows Vossler wants to go, just for the night, before the week’s end, and he can’t, really can’t, until he digs himself out of the backlogged paperwork. And the paperwork will have to wait until after Vossler’s regular duties—the meetings, inspections, training exercises. Basch will probably offer to help tomorrow night, too, with the paper side of things. No one can do the rest of it for him. Then what Balthier said sinks in. “Tomorrow?” He looks at him.

“We thought we’d stay for a few days,” he says. He tugs at one of the small braids he’s made. “If you don’t mind.”

Basch wraps his arms around Balthier’s waist again, curls in close. “I don’t mind at all.” Knowing he’ll be here tomorrow night, too—he lets himself yawn, feels his body relax.

Balthier slides down to meet him, then kisses him again. “Tomorrow, too, you and I will talk about getting _you_ out of work for a few days, hm?” Basch hums his agreement, and Balthier pulls Basch’s arm across his chest, tugs Basch’s leg over his own, spreads Basch out in the sprawl Basch won’t take for himself when he’s sharing sleeping space. “There,” he says, and he wriggles a little, adjusting. “That’s better.”

Yes, Basch thinks. It is.


End file.
